“Mr. Davis clearly knows his firearms,” Dahlgen said, holding up the weapon. “So let’s stage a brief exercise to see what FBI training is all about.” He motioned to the range officer. “Agent Stimson, you think you might be kind enough to lend your sidearm to Mr. Davis?”

The range officer looked intensely uncomfortable at the request. But he nevertheless dutifully unhooked his belt and handed the weapon to Gideon. Gideon recognized it as a Glock 22, the most commonly used law enforcement weapon in the United States. The gun was unloaded, with no magazine inserted in the weapon.

Gideon fumbled a little as he strapped on the belt with the weapon. His apparent unfamiliarity with the gun, though, was a pretense. He owned one himself and was quite comfortable operating it.

Dahlgren walked to the white stripe painted on the grass.

The RO laid a powerful hand on Gideon’s shoulder and put his head close to Gideon’s ear. “Deputy Director Dahlgren used to be on the Hostage Rescue Team, that’s the FBI’s elite SWAT-type unit,” he said. “And he was the number-one man on the FBI pistol team. Don’t try to beat him, okay? Just be safe, draw slowly and carefully and don’t shoot anybody.”

“Got it,” Gideon said.

“Don’t patronize me,” the RO whispered. “I don’t give a good goddamn who you were or wh/p>±€†at the deputy director says, if you do anything stupid or unsafe, I’m gonna kick your ass so far you’ll need a map to find it. Clear?”

“Crystal,” Gideon said.

Dahlgren motioned impatiently to Gideon. “Come on, son. Toes on the line.”

Gideon felt a thrum of excitement. He had been a competitive shooter in his youth, with several national championships under his belt. But after his father killed his mother and then turned the gun on himself, he had sworn off shooting for several decades. Eighteen months ago, however, he’d been forced to use firearms again. Since then he’d spent two or three afternoons a week at the range, each time rediscovering the power that came from firing a loaded weapon.

After Gideon stepped to the line, the RO handed him a magazine.

“Make it hot,” Dahlgren said.

Gideon slid the magazine into the Glock, racked the slide, and holstered it.

Dahlgren addressed the crowd again. “Now, folks, it’s natural for a man to get a little nervous in a situation like this. Would you like to try out the weapon, just to see how it works?”

“If you don’t mind,” Gideon said.

“Five shots be enough?”

“I guess it’ll have to do,” Gideon said, throwing a weak smile toward the crowd. This drew scattered laughter.

“Draw and fire five,” the RO said, “no time limit.”

Gideon drew with exaggerated care, extended the weapon using an inefficient, old-fashioned cup-and-saucer grip, squeezed his left eye closed with a conspicuous grimace and fired five slow shots. Three shots hit the bull, one hit the nine ring, and a flier hit the seven.

“Not bad!” Dahlgren raised his palm toward Gideon. “How about a hand for our honored guest?”

The crowd of trainees applauded tepidly. Probably no more than a third of them could have shot any better. But it was nothing to write home about.

“How about a little wager,” Dahlgren said softly to Gideon. “If you outshoot me, I’ll give Agent Clement some rope on your informant. If not, then you drop it.”

Gideon had seen this coming, seen it a mile away. He suppressed a smile. Dahlgren had no intention of giving Nancy any leeway and was using the moment only to humiliate Gideon. Well, he would play it out and go where it took him.

“Seems like a cavalier way of addressing an issue of this importance,” Gideon returned, quietly enough that the trainees wouldn’t hear him. “But that’s just one man’s opinion.”

“Then I’m glad I didn’t ask for it,” Dahlgren whispered back. Then he raised his voice and addressed the trainees again. “What we’re going to do is simulate an attack by an advancing adversary. Imagine, for a moment, that in the course of interviewing a suspect, you’re surprised by an attacker at your back. You turn to find an assailant rushing toward you with a loaded weapon. What do you do?”

“Simple drill,” the range officer said, taking his cue from Dahlgren. “Gentlemen, turn and face me. On my command, turn and engage the target with three shots—two to the body, one to the head. We’ve got synchronized shot timers built into every station, so if both shooters put all three shots on target, the fastest time wins.”

“Okay,” Gideon said.

They stood silently for a moment, backs to the targets, the wind whipping across the broad expanse of grass. Gideon waited for a beep or buzzer signaling the start of the string.

Suddenly the range officer shouted, “Gun! Gun! Gun!”

It caught Gideon off guard. For the briefest of moments he hesitated. But then his body kicked in. He whirled, drawing the Glock in one smooth motion, assuming a modern thumb-over-thumb grip. This time he didn’t squint one eye but simply acquired the target with both eyes open and squeezed the trigger of the Glock. In his mind he registered that Dahlgren’s gun had already sounded by the time he broke the first shot. His own two shots to the body, however, sounded so close that they almost appeared to be one shot. Then he slid the front sight up toward the target’s head and fired another shot. Almost immediately the target flipped sideways and then slid down into a slot in the ground.

The range was completely silent.

“Holy shit,” someone said finally.

“Unload and show clear,” the RO instructed.

Gideon unloaded the Glock and holstered it.

“Time?” the range officer shouted.

A second RO stood at a small computer station on the edge of the range. “Deputy Director Dahlgren, one point zero three seconds,” he called.

There were whistles and cheers from the trainees.

“Mr. Davis, uh . . .” The second RO hesitated. “I’m not sure if this is right . . .”

“Just read us the time,” Dahlgren said.

“Mr. Davis—zero point nine nine one.”

There were several gasps from the trainees.

“Score the targets,” Dahlgren growled.

The RO hit a button, and Dahlgren’s target rose from the ground, then flipped around so it was visible.

There were three holes in the target, two in the circle at the center, one right between the eyes.

“Ten, ten, and ten,” called the RO. “For a total perfect score of thirty.”

The RO hit another button and Gideon’s target rose from the ground. A long, slow groan rose from the crowd. “Ten. Ten. Zero. Two hits and a clean miss.” The RO scribbled something on his sheet, then called out, “Well, if Mr. Davis had hit all three, he would have shot the fastest perfect Mozambique in FBI history. Sadly, his second shot was a clean miss and Deputy Director Dahlgren wins the contest thirty points to twenty.”

There was a thunder m">±€†of applause. Dahlgren finally calmed the crowd. “Well, Mr. Davis gave us a little surprise there. He was a better shooter than he let on. Wouldn’t want to play poker with him. But point made. Your FBI training will teach you to survive . . . and to prevail.” He winked at Gideon. “Sorry, Mr. Davis. Nice try, though.”

He then gave the trainees some choice tips from his days with the HRT.

While the deputy director spoke, Gideon crooked his finger at the range officer. “Let me see that target,” he said.

The RO shrugged and pressed a button, bringing the target back to the firing line. Gideon examined it, then pointed out the tiny circle in the middle of the target. The RO squinted at it carefully. “I’ll be damned!” he said.

He waited for the deputy director to finish his pep talk and dismiss his trainees, then motioned him over.

Dahlgren looked irritated at being summoned. “What?”

“Um, sir?” the RO said softly, putting his finger next to the hole in the center of the target. “There are two grease rings here.”